


The Glass Factory

by lirin



Category: Psammead Trilogy - Edith Nesbit
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Next Generation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: "Dearest Gerald," Anthea wrote, "The children are all being very good. They've grown fascinated with the glass factory at the end of the road; I told them they are not to bother the workers, but they may play in the piles of sand outside the factory if no-one tells them not to. The fine sand is such a nice, high-quality sort of sand that there is nothing better for playing in, they tell me, and I have so many fond childhood memories myself of playing in a sand-pit next to our house."





	The Glass Factory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).



The house was quiet. Rosie and James had gone out to play, and Elsie had finally gone down for her nap. Anthea answered the cook's questions about supper—beef and whatever vegetable she thought best would be fine, thank you; yes, potatoes would make a fine addition, and she certainly wouldn't say no to Cook's famous peach pie—and settled herself in the big easy chair in the sitting room. Situating her writing box in her lap, she drew out a sheet of the lavender-scented monogrammed stationery that Gerald had bought her for her last birthday. Should she write to him first, or to Cyril? It didn't much matter, as she would wait to post the letters until they were both finished. Cyril and Gerald were in the same company over in Germany, occupying the Rhineland, and she shouldn't want either of them to think she had forgotten him, and only written to the other. Though she did hope they didn't show their letters to each other; there were some things she'd written to Gerald that one just wouldn't want one's brother to read. And there were some things she'd written to Cyril that—well, her husband just mightn't understand. He'd think she was pretending at best, and mad at worst, though he knew her too well to believe the latter of her. But it was unlikely that he'd even be able to read Cyril's letters; they had wished all those years ago that they wouldn't be able to tell anyone about the Psammead, and those mentions in the letters would be telling, wouldn't they?

"Dearest Gerald," she wrote, "The children are all being very good. They mention you often, and I know they hope for your safe return as much as I. This past week, they've grown fascinated with the glass factory at the end of the road. I told them they are not to bother the workers or to try to get inside, but they may play in the piles of sand outside the factory if no-one tells them not to. The fine sand is such a nice, high-quality sort of sand that there is nothing better for playing in, they tell me, and I have so many fond childhood memories myself of playing in a sand-pit next to our house." Gerald wouldn't be picturing the same thing that she was when he imagined what those childhood memories might entail, but it would be close enough. Anthea blotted her pen and wracked her brain for what else to tell him about the children. Usually, she would relate some recent antics, perhaps involving them breaking something or bothering Cook; but they had been quite well behaved for the last few days. The only thing they'd done wrong was to come in late a couple of times, and that didn't make for a particularly interesting anecdote. There was a crash from upstairs—Elsie must be awake. Anthea tucked her letter and pen inside the writing box, and hurried to retrieve Elsie before she could get into anything she shouldn't.

 

Rosie and James rushed into the house a few minutes after sunset. "You're late for supper," Anthea scolded them, but her heart wasn't in it, for their cheeks were rosy and they seemed to be enjoying their day very much.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," Rosie said. "We'll try not to let it happen again. Only we...we lost track of the time, and then we had to run to get home."

"That's right," James said. "We forgot about supper until the sun went down, and then as soon as it did we ran right home. We'll try to pay more attention to the time tomorrow."

"That's all right, then," Anthea said. "Now, eat your peas, and Cook's made peach pie for a special treat after we all finish eating supper."

"Was there a letter from Daddy today?" Rosie asked.

Anthea shook her head. "No, but I'm sure there will be soon. He's probably been much too busy to write. I started a letter today that I shall post tomorrow, and if you wish, you may both write short letters for me to enclose with it."

"Oh, I wish we would get a letter from Daddy soon!" Rosie exclaimed.

"Can I write and tell him about a bird I saw yesterday?" James asked, almost speaking over Rosie. "It was bright red. I think it was a cardinal."

"Yes, you may," Anthea told him. "Rosie, do you want to write to Daddy?"

Rosie nodded.

"Then tomorrow morning, before you both go out to play, we shall all sit down together and write letters to Daddy."

There was a tap at the dining-room door, and Cook came in. "If you please, ma'am, the evening post's just come."

"Right on time," Anthea said with a laugh. "We were just speaking about writing letters." She sifted through the couple of envelopes that Cook handed her. "And here, look, oh, look! It's a letter from your Daddy!"

"Daddy!" Rosie and James chorused. ("Dada!" Elsie echoed, not to be outdone.) They held out their hands for the envelope, but Anthea clutched it tight.

"Not just yet," she said. "Let me read it first, and then I shall read it aloud to you. Cook, would you please clear the rest of the supper things and bring a piece of pie for each of us? By the time you are done eating your pie, I am sure I will be done with the letter and can read it to you."

The letter had been posted almost a week ago—long before any of the children had even begun to wonder aloud about when he would write, much less to utter wishes about it at the supper-table. But still, Anthea worried. And that night, she dreamed of the sand-pit near that dear old white house in the country.

 

Rosie and James bounded into her room almost as soon as the sun rose the next morning, chattering about the letters they planned to write. Anthea forestalled them with instructions about washing and about cleaning their rooms that at least bought her enough time to doze for ten more precious minutes and to make her toilet in peace. When she came downstairs, they were there at the table, faces freshly scrubbed and legs kicking with boredom, but all the chairs were upright, which was better than they sometimes were. Anthea handed round thick sheets of watermarked paper from Marks & Spencer, and fetched her writing box from the sitting room to resume her own letter. Writing quickly, she added scarcely a page to her letter from the previous day, replying to some of the specific things Gerald had mentioned in his own letter and assuring him of her never-ending affection, before setting it aside to write a much longer letter to Robert. She used some of the Marks & Spencer paper for that letter; she didn't think Robert would care whether she used the more expensive stationery on him.

 

Robert's letter came by return of post. When Anthea, saw how quickly he had replied, she thought perhaps he was as worried as she; but his letter seemed inclined, rather, to allay her concerns. "Dear Panther," he wrote, "The Psammead is gone, into the past, and it didn't mention any plans for coming back. And it's only a letter, not a castle or wings or apparent ill-gotten gains. I know having Gerald gone has been hard for you, but aren't you borrowing trouble? This isn't like the first time, where we knew we would see the Psammead again because we had wished it, and frankly it all seems rather unlikely. I mean, when you look at the situation from a distance, all you've got is a glass factory near your house, children not being in a hurry to curtail their play to go home, and a letter that you said yourself you were expecting any day. You might instruct them in proper wish-making and what to avoid, if that would make you feel better. If only Elsie had wished that you'd be able to tell people about the Psammead; then, if it was around to make her wish real—which I really think it isn't—you'd be able to warn them more explicitly. But as it is, I don't think you have any need to worry. My love to Rosie, Jimmy, and Elsie."

Rosie and James came in right as she finished reading the letter. The sun had not yet set, so _if_ they had found the Psammead and _if_ they had wished for anything, it hadn't lasted until sunset, or they had been able to leave it behind. But even then, Anthea's worries were not eased. When the children were all seated around the supper-table, she informed them sternly that she had some advice for them. "If you ever find a—a—" She could not speak the name of the Psammead, and as she stammered further, she determined that neither 'sand-fairy' nor 'thing that grants wishes' could be spoken aloud, and even 'creature' would not pass her lips at the moment. "Well, she said, after she had been stammering for nearly a minute, and the children were staring at her in perplexity, "if you ever want something, and you have reason to think it might actually come true, then make sure you think of all the consequences of that thing coming true, that's all."

"Yes, Mummy," Rosie said, and stuffed her mouth full of boiled potatoes.

"What's consequences?" asked James.

"Rosie, take smaller bites, like a grown-up," Anthea said. "James, consequences are things that happen as a result of other things. For example, when you dropped your toy soldier out of the nursery window and it broke, the broken toy was a consequence of you dropping it out of the window. Or if you hadn't written a letter to Daddy this morning, then the consequence would be that he wouldn't hear from you. But since you did write a letter to Daddy, and we gave it to the postman, then the consequence is that he will soon be very happy because he has a letter from you. You see, sometimes consequences can be good, but sometimes they are bad, and so you need to think about everything that could happen before you—before you try to make it happen, or ask to make it happen, or anything."

"Is this because we asked you to take us to the zoo last week, Mummy?" asked Rosie, who had finally swallowed all her potatoes.

Anthea shook her head. "No, it's...not because of anything in particular." The words came easier, now she wasn't trying to mention the Psammead. "It's just something I thought the two of you ought to know, since you're getting so much older and bigger. Now, have you finished all of your cabbage? I'll ask Cook to bring in dessert."

She feared she had made the children think she was displeased with them, so she made sure they both got extra-large helpings of dessert. They hadn't understood a thing she'd said, that was sure. If only she could have spoken more plainly. Robert was right: if only their wish not to speak of the Psammead had been broken somehow!

But since it had not and could not, there was only one thing to be done. After all the children were tucked in their beds that night, and then given glasses of water and re-tucked, and Elsie had finally stopped squalling, Anthea lay down quite flat in her bed, with her hands held straight at her sides. "I must wake up at five," she whispered, and as she spoke, she banged her head back against the pillow five times. It was a trick she had not used in years and years, but a skill once mastered is never entirely lost, and as Anthea drifted off, she felt quite certain she would wake at five.

 

As it happened, it was ten past five when her eyes opened again, and Anthea resolved to spend the next few days waking up at specific hours. But ten past five was fine enough to be getting on with. She dressed quickly and quietly in the clothes she had laid out the night before, left a note ("Gone on an errand—back shortly") on the kitchen table in case Cook woke and found her gone, and slipped softly out the side door.

The sand-pile outside the factory seemed larger than she had remembered it, here in the dim twilight with the prospect of searching the entire thing for something that probably wasn't here, and if it was here, it certainly wouldn't want to be found. She felt despair rising in her breast—and then she saw it: half-hidden in the sand, a ring of stones, so like the ones she had made in her childhood that for a moment she was back there, in the sand-pit in the countryside. Then she caught her breath and ran forward.

She hoped none of the factory-workers were here this early, for surely they would think her mad, scrabbling at the ground with her bare hands as she was. The hole grew deeper and deeper, and the sky grew brighter and brighter. What time did the factory open for business? Half past six? Seven? She must stop soon, or she would be caught. Perhaps she was only borrowing trouble, as Robert had said. But even as the thought grew to certainty in her mind, her hand brushed something that was definitely not sand. "Psammead?" she whispered. With renewed urgency, she brushed the sand away as gently as she could. "Psammead? It's me, Anthea."

"Not you again," came a mutter, and sure enough, the Psammead heaved itself out of the sand. "Anthea?" it continued. "You don't look it."

"Well, I'm older now than when you last saw me," she said. " _You_ look very well indeed, not a day over two thousand," she added politely. "I thought you went to the past, and were gone forever."

"Well, the past doesn't last forever," it grumbled. "Eventually, it's the present, and then it's the future."

"I thought time and space were only a mode of thought," Anthea said.

"Well, they can be that too, and still end up one in the other, can't they? Now why are you here? You want something, don't you. But remember, you promised never to ask me for another wish, as long as you live, so you're wasting your time." It backed away from her, as if to scramble back into its hole.

"No, wait!" Anthea cried. "I don't have a wish, but a question. If I am very, very careful not to tell anyone who would wish—would desire, I mean—any harm on you, may I please be released from the rule not to tell anyone about you, dear Psammead? Because I have a husband and children, and I should very much like to tell them about my childhood. I would promise not to tell them you're still around, if you liked."

"Not possible," the Psammead said firmly. "You can't reverse a wish with a mere question, and you've promised not to wish again." It turned back to its hole and started to dig, then whirled around again. "Your children, what do they look like? How many of them are there?"

"I'll tell you if you'll tell me a way for me to be released from the wish," Anthea said doggedly.

There was a bustle a few yards down, as people rounded the edge of the sand pile where Anthea and the Psammead crouched. The glass-workers, starting work at last! Anthea dared not look at them. The Psammead dove away from her one last time, and this time it disappeared completely. Keeping her wits about her as best as she could, Anthea stepped on top of the place where it had disappeared, for lack of anything else to mark the place with. Perhaps the glass-workers would let her move the ring of stones before they chased her off.

"Mummy?"

Heart pounding, Anthea looked up at the newcomers. It was not glass-workers at all, but Rosie and James.

"Mummy, what are you doing here?"

"I—" She still could not say 'Psammead'. She feared the children would think she had been spying on them, or trying to ruin their play, but if she could not explain, how could she convince them she had no such intentions? "I was just—I don't think I can tell you. I want to, but I'm not allowed."

"If we could make it so you were allowed," Rosie said slowly, "would you like to tell us?"

"Yes, very much," Anthea said.

"Now you must promise not to hurt anything we show you," Rosie said. She slipped along the side of the sand-pile, followed by James, until they were standing next to the ring of stones.

"It's all dug out!" James wailed.

"You might try over here where I'm standing," Anthea said. "I can't tell you why, but I think you might have better luck with—with whatever it is you're trying to do, than if you dug over there."

They followed her instructions, pausing every so often to glance up at her with puzzled eyes. Anthea supposed she must look a sight, with her dress all smudged and dirty, and her hands filthy and covered in scratches.

The Psammead was unearthed eventually, and Rosie seized it firmly between her hands. "Be gentle," Anthea said coaxingly, and Rosie relaxed her grip, though only slightly.

"Now then," Rosie said, in her most lecturing tone. "I wish that you would make it so Mummy can tell us why she's here."

"Mummy?" exclaimed the Psammead. "I might have known these imps were some connection of yours."

"Do you _know_ Mummy?" Rosie exclaimed, nearly losing her grip on the Psammead in her excitement.

"If they've figured it out anyway, there wouldn't seem to be any harm in my telling them," Anthea told the Psammead.

"And Rosie _did_ make a wish," James added. "Aren't you going to grant it?"

"Very well," the Psammead grumbled, and it puffed itself out until it was nearly twice its normal size. "There," it said, collapsing itself back again, "now you can tell your silly children whatever you wish about the silly antics you and your siblings got up to, and I'm going to sand." It dove away from them as it spoke, and Rosie and James seized the stones from the ring and followed it. They seemed quite practiced in this undertaking, and had a stone ring encircling its latest location in less than a minute.

After finishing, they both stood up and turned around to stare at Anthea. She stared back. Now that the flurry of excitement had passed, everything that had just happened seemed quite unbelievable. "That...was a Psammead," she said, and the word came out of her mouth without any hesitation. " _The_ Psammead, I suppose, although thousands of years ago there were many like it."

The children ran forward and hugged her. Anthea sat down on the side of the sand-pile, and made herself as comfortable as possible, with one arm around Rosie and the other arm around James. Her dress would never be the same, she was sure, but she couldn't bring herself to care at all. "There were once four children," she began, "who spent their summer holidays in a white house, happily situated between a sand-pit and a chalk-pit. Those four children were your Uncle Cyril, your Uncle Robert, your Aunt Jane, and me." The memories came flooding back, faster than she could get the words out, but at least she finally had the words.

Rosie squeezed her hand. "Was there a Psammead in the sand-pit?"

"There was indeed."


End file.
